


accommodation

by ClementineStarling



Category: Jericho (UK 2016)
Genre: Crossover, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-29
Updated: 2016-02-29
Packaged: 2018-05-24 01:08:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6136204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClementineStarling/pseuds/ClementineStarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles still needs money for the viaduct, so Johnny goes to see a rich relative. </p><p>Warning: Beware, dubcon and implications of noncon.<br/>Rating: somewhere between Mature and Explicit<br/>Aside: mentioned Johnny/Isabella, implied Johnny/Annie, /Skinny and /Dagger - guess who is having fun :P</p>
            </blockquote>





	accommodation

**Author's Note:**

> tbh this isn't much different from a Blackwood/Coward fic.  
> Also not really a real story, more of a fragment, but I had to get it out of my head (and consequently the virtual desk drawer).  
> In other words: I must be bored out of my fucking mind! *yawns*
> 
> Basically it's a weird crossover, inspired by the name Blackwood and the casting of Hans Matheson, and somehow by Tess of the d'Urbervilles and most of all by a late night conversation I had with [the_me09](http://archiveofourown.org/users/the_me09)* after episode 3. As a consequence this is pretty AU. Not that there were much of an actual canon I could meddle with. 
> 
> * I'm still hoping for a take of hers featuring a reversed version of [the infamous strawberry scene](http://emperorirene.tumblr.com/post/107136364578) btw. <3
> 
> (This takes place after season 1 of Jericho, somewhen in the early 1870s, which means Henry Blackwood would be in his mid to late twenties and cousin Johnny in his late thirties.)

__

Johnny has never cared much for money.

At first he doesn't have to, it is just there, privilege of his class. Not huge amounts of it of course, but enough to live the worry-free life of the landed gentry, dedicated to simple pleasures, the things one can enjoy when liberated from the obligation of labour. Johnny loves feeling the wind over the moors, the warmth of sunshine on his skin, the powerful muscles of his horse in gallop. He likes to drink and he likes to make love. He likes to stay up all night and sleep during the day. And while the means of his father may be modest, and the sum he grants Johnny as an allowance too meagre to keep up a proper gentleman's lifestyle, Johnny could not mind less, for he doesn't aspire to being a gentleman. As long as he can afford a bottle of wine and the company of a willing woman, he knows better than to bother his pretty head about money.

He does dream of treasures though. The sort of fairy tale riches brought home from adventurous expeditions. He imagines travelling the silk road, visiting foreign countries, winning the heart of an exotic beauty; they are the fantasies of a boy refusing to grow up and accept the liabilities of adulthood, but still his father loves him nonetheless, even encourages his journeys, scarcely disguised as 'business trips', regardless the fact they usually cost more than they bring in revenue, indulges him in all his fancies with the blind, boundless adoration for a first-born son. In all but one.

__

Her blond hair is soft as silk as he twists his hand into it to pull her head backwards, and her eyes widen in surprise at the sudden roughness. He can see a hint of fear, and yes, she should be afraid, for what kind of an animal must he be to seduce his own brother's fiancée? But the sense of danger just adds to her excitement, it is all too obvious in the way she arcs into him, offers herself to be taken. She wants him, not despite but because of his wickedness, desires him because he is so unlike his saint of a brother, because he has no qualms, no reservations. She longs to be used for his pleasure, even though she has yet to understand what this means. But oh, he is determined to show her. He yanks harder, a gasp of pain splits her mouth like a blossoming flower, and he leans down to kiss her.

__

It is, certainly, not the only vile thing he's ever done, not even the worst, but the only one he has to pay for. His father is livid, angrier than Johnny has ever seen him. He does not even raise his voice, but he is implacable, pale and cold as stone when he tells Johnny to leave, and he cannot be swayed by apologies or pleading, not even by tears. The stupid affair costs Johnny not only his home and the love of his family, the wild dreams and colourful fancies, but also the financial security he's taken for granted. It isn't until his father cuts him off, that Johnny gets to understand the true value of money. It's hunger and labour that teach him its worth, a hard lesson, but like all hard lessons one he won't soon forget.

He learns about the relentlessness of the elements, how harsh the wind can be and how burning the sun.  
He learns about the limits of his strength, the ache in his muscles, the fragility of a body.  
He learns about true tiredness, the leaden feel of approaching sleep, the pain of staying awake.

He never, despite all the hardship, forgets how to find comfort in another body though, never fails to relish the warmth of skin and the solace of flesh, the delight of heated whispers and passionate moans.

It is, he comes to realise, the single one thing he cannot live without.

__

They call him 'Prince' when he returns home at last, and Johnny has a hard time not laughing at the irony of it. The man he is now, hands labour-worn, skin weather-beaten, bears hardly any semblance to the landowner's spoilt son he once was. He is older, broader, tougher, perhaps - hopefully - smarter too. He knows how to fend for himself, but also how dependent one is on his master.

That's why, when Isabella asks him, when she explains it's their last option, he decides to swallow his pride and go asking for money. Because he knows how it is to rely on wages, hard-earned through hard work that leaves you hungry and tired and too weak to fight, and that it is his responsibility now to procure them for the navvies, his navvies. He cannot, may not disappoint them, not when he's been one of them for so long, not when he's privy to both sides of the bargain now, employer and employee.

 _It is not for me_ , he tells himself when he steps up to the front door, all by itself huge and imposing like the gates of a castle. It's not him, who needs the money, they do. For him, it's been a choice to be poor, and he doesn't regret it. Not going hungry, not being cold, that's what money can buy, not happiness though, not even freedom, and perhaps he still believes that after so many years in poverty, believes it even more perhaps than in the days when he was spoilt and reckless and ready to risk everything for a bit of fun.

His fingers feel for the coins in his pocket, an unconscious habit he developed over the years he'd been carrying everything he owned on his body. A handful of round, hard, silver shillings. They're warm to the touch, reassuring. It's good to know he's got enough to pay for a week of lodgings and food. Hardly ever more, but he grew used to that. There is also a piece of paper, folded, already soft with use, that states a number, such an improbable, ridiculous number that cannot be broken down in shillings and pence, or rather it should not, lest it makes his head spin.

He has not felt more like a beggar for a long time than now that he stands before this grand mansion, which demonstrates so flagrantly how humble Johnny's privileged upbringing was in comparison to the luxuries of the truly wealthy. They always were the poor relatives, but he had styled himself a rebel, independent, defiant, and it hurts to let go of this now. Admit to his short-comings. For the first time in ages he is aware of how shabby his clothes are, and how dirty his fingernails. The earth has settled there as if it decided to become a part of him, unwilling to be removed even by a thorough scrubbing.

The servants pretend not to notice how ragged he looks, but Henry is not so polite, eyes him with a raised eyebrow before he greets him.

“Cousin,” he says, not even bothering to get up. There is nothing in him anymore that compares to the lad of scarcely twenty years Johnny remembers, no trace of softness, not a bit of insecurity. He sits on his chair as if it were a throne, and waves him closer with a gesture as regal as any king's. And in a way he is a king, owner of his own business empire that is worth more than a hundred viaducts.

Johnny swallows. It will be even more difficult than he anticipated, standing here, like a subject seeking audience, anxious for the good graces of his lord. He is glad the servants took his hat and coat, he could not have endured standing here, with nervous fingers clutching at the rim of his hat, a peasant before his master. He must remember they are family, almost equals. He resists groping for the shillings in his pocket, or the soft-worn piece of paper that states the considerable sum he needs to save Charles venture, _their_ venture.

“I was expecting your brother to be honest,” Henry says conversationally, “Sweet guileless Charles. I hear he is indisposed?”

Johnny nods. Bad news travel fast. “Broke his leg saving my life,” he says. Somehow it needs to be said, although it also sounds somewhat _pathetic_. Surely Henry is not interested in their family dramas. And he is not surprised, when Henry's expression remains impassive.

“I've always thought him too holy for his own good,” Henry remarks, as if speaking to himself. “Truth be told, I've been expecting him ever since I heard of this venture of his. And viaduct. What a grand enterprise. I've been wondering how he had planned to fund it. Your father never had a gift with money, and neither has he, it seems. And you... rumour has it you make a living as a navvy these days?” He looks him pointedly up and down. Johnny's clothes feel even more threadbare under his gaze. “I gather it's true then?”

Johnny bites his tongue. He understands the insult, hears the derision in Henry's tone, yet he must not allow himself to get angry. It was perfectly clear from the beginning that ridicule would be the price he'd have to pay for this endeavour. “It is,” he admits with clenched teeth. “No shame in earning an honest living, is there?”

Henry smiles, more of a smirk really, and cocks his head. “Of course not.” His voice is no less mocking than before, and Johnny wonders whether there may be any part left in him that's not sharp and cutting.

“Now is it honesty that brought you here?”

It is clearly a rhetorical question, since Henry doesn't wait for an answer. “Speaking of honesty,” he says, “I also heard, Charles married Isabella after all? Has he forgiven her trespasses? I suppose it was a rational decision, a marriage of convenience-- She is to have a decent dowry, isn't she? How opportune a coincidence. I only wonder why it wasn't you who married her. You are your father's heir, and you're also the one who already _fucked_ her.” Johnny sucks in his breath at the word, but Henry simply goes on. “Would she not have you? She pined for you for years, would not look at any other man.”

Johnny wonders briefly how Henry can possibly know that, but then he remembers; he himself must have told him most of it, one day in the distant past, charmed by those large golden eyes and a winning smile. It's hard to fit memory and present together, the man across from him is so unlike the boy he used to be.

“Isabella's made her choice,” Johnny says. _She chose the better man_ , he wants to add, but doesn't. What use would it be? He isn't here to convince anyone he regrets the past, is he?

Henry looks at him intently, a gaze almost as palpable as the touch of a hand, just long enough for the discomfort to unfold in Johnny's chest, before he gets up and steps closer. He stands tall, taller than he remembers, towering good five inches above him. “What is it, cousin, why are you suddenly so pale?” Henry reaches out for him, the sprawl of his hand awful against Johnny's cheek.

Johnny can't help but flinch at the touch.

“The years have not been kind to you. Too much sun, too much hard labour. Just look at the lines.” He trails his fingers over his face, and Johnny remembers how greedy these hands can be, how wicked.

“Henry,” he rasps, tries to turn his face away, but Henry won't let him.

“Was it really Isabella's choice?” he asks, returning to the previous topic. “Perhaps it was your disinterest. You used to be so erratic in matters of the heart, ever in pursuit of a new adventure. And you've always had a gift for enchantment. Even now there are several people competing for your favour. I hear you've already assembled a little collection of sweethearts since your return, a lovely widow, a handsome navvy, and another one, even prettier, to replace the first one, when he was killed in an accident. Skinny, Dagger, what extraordinary names these man have, no wonder you wanted to taste them... Where ever you go, you leave a trail of broken hearts, don't you, John?”

Johnny opens his mouth, but Henry puts a long finger on his lips. “Shhh, don't deny it. I know. I've always known, don't you remember? You told me about your conquests once, every little playful detail, and what useful lessons they were, your teachings about the secrets of love...”

Johnny could swear the finger against his lip, the palm against his cheek have begun to burn like a brand of shame upon his skin.

Of course he remembers, not everything, he drank too much in those days, but the essentials: Henry's admiring gaze, the swift flash of a tongue darting out to wet an upper lip in excitement, the faint flush of colour, high on Henry's cheeks; he was such a zealous listener, hanging on his every word, so eager to know everything there was to know about carnal pleasures.

“You told me how sweet the embrace of a woman is,” Henry continues, “how tender her flesh, how gentle her touch. You warned me that women were fragile creatures, not in body but in mind, and having them hardly worth the trouble. And you also told me of the passion of men, the beastly urges, the desire to take and take and take. You made it sound so much better, so much more true, and I was desperate to try. Do you remember? How you poisoned my mind with the predilections of an invert back then, when I was but a boy?” His smile is all teeth.

Johnny can actually see it now before his mind's eye – lazy sunlit afternoons they spent sprawled on pillows and blankets in the gardens, drinking champagne, sultry nights in the haze of smoke and spirits, how Henry had touched him, reverently at first, then more assuredly, at last impatient. How finally Johnny had given in, bent that slender, wiry body over a desk in the library, enjoyed the feel of firm buttocks under his fingers and a tight hole around his cock. He had given him what he wanted, until he positively howled with pleasure, with an abandon that seems impossible today.

Johnny is unsure whether this would be the moment to apologise – he should have known better than to seduce a younger cousin, there is no excuse for his actions, it was as reckless as any of his deeds. But the damage is done, has been done a long time ago, and if in fact it was him who created this monster, he has already done penance for it.

Henry has replaced the forefinger on his lips with his thumb, tracing the seam of Johnny's mouth in a strange parody of a lover's touch. It raises a heat in him that's not quite like the burning of shame and guilt, though not free of these sentiments either. Johnny realises what the finger will do once he opens his mouth to speak – push into his mouth, insinuating, lewd – and so he keeps silent, listens to what Henry has to say.

“You know, once I tasted a man's flesh, your flesh, I could not fathom anymore why one should even bother with seducing the fairer sex. For the sake of romance alone? For the thrill of the chase, the art of persuasion, of trapping a woman in a web of compliments and promises? It seems so bland compared to the flavours of unrestrained passion.”

Henry's thumb dips deeper, dangerously close to the wetness behind Johnny's lips, just as he lowers his voice. “That's also what you taught me, do you remember? One courts a woman, but fucks a man. And your sweet Annie, she should have known your preferences too, suspected at least. What man touches a woman like that? So patient. All those dry kisses and chaste embraces, all the tenderness, as if you were a true romantic. But you were sated, were you not? As sated as you can ever be, fucked to completion, still dripping with your lover's seed when you pushed into her, slow, so slow, the smooth back and forth of love making, too composed for true passion. Too composed for the time you'd been waiting for her. Maybe, as a decent woman, she could not have known, but whores, they always recognise their kind.”

Johnny shudders. The words, the memories they invoke, the improbable truth of it. It's difficult to piece it all together, make head or tail of the turmoil inside him “What do you mean... whores?” he stammers, only half grasping the implied connection. “And how do you know this? Do you have spies in my town?” He wants to take a step back, but Henry seems to have foreseen the move a second before he attempts it, tightens his fingers around Johnny's face and holds him in place. He is suddenly so close. Johnny can feel the warm huff of his laughter.

“You call that sad assembly of huts and tents a town? How presumptuous! But yes, of course I have. Ever since I got that first letter of your brother, asking for an investment. I wanted to know what he was up to. And can you imagine my delight when I heard the lost son had returned home? I expected your brother, but I _hoped_ it would be you, who'd come to beg. It is after all not the first time you'd ask for money.” Henry's hand has tangled itself in his hair, yanks. “And you know what I want in return.”

Johnny closes his eyes. Of course he knows.

__

The anger was still boiling inside him when he arrived at the manor house, consumptive as a fever, Johnny saw it reflected in Henry's mirror-eyes, but he remained distant, unaffected by it and even though he listened to Johnny's tirade of insults and complaints he did not share in his outrage. And why should he? Why should he have cared about their quarrel? It was family, sure, but neither _his_ father nor _his_ brother nor _his_ fiancée. So Henry stayed calm, cupped his cheek, pressed his mouth to his lips, and as Johnny did not react with the usual eagerness, said: “What do you want?” His voice was cool, matter of fact, almost bored.

Johnny found that all he could think of was money, and when he said so, Henry laughed, a cold, glassy sound and asked: “What will you give me in return?”

__

Henry had been an avid student, quick and eager to surpass his teacher. He had developed tastes far more exotic, far more refined than Johnny could ever have dreamt of, and what he finally asked of him made Johnny shudder, but he had no choice, they had already struck a deal. So he complied, knelt when it was demanded, kept quiet when he was told. He bore the pain, the discomfort without complaint. Secretly, beneath his disgust, some part of him revelled in his debasement, and he could not say whether it was because he regarded his treatment as punishment or as reward. Henry took him like he'd never been taken before, without any regard for his well-being, selfish, brutal, unrestrained, and God, Johnny had never come so hard in all his life.

Still, they haven't talked since then. Not till the present day.

__

Henry lets go of him. Offers his hand instead, in a strange gesture of chivalry, and Johnny takes it. Allows Henry to lead him from his study to the next room, a small parlour. He lead Annie out into the moor like this, only a couple of days ago. He remembers the feel of her hand, small, though not the dainty hand of a lady, but callused from work, dry and strong. Henry's palm is larger, his fingers longer, but Johnny finds he likes its touch every bit as much, it's no less reassuring, no less gentle.

But it will be, he reminds himself, and he feels himself stirring at the thought.

Henry was right; while he does enjoy the company of a woman – a bit of romance, sweet kisses and tenderness, holding her tight, whispering nonsense into her ear, relishing the smell of her hair and the way her soft curves mould themselves against his body, a sense of protectiveness – he _yearns_ for the demanding touch of a man. It is so much simpler if one has not to worry about consequences. Men don't lose their innocence in such dalliances, nor their honour, they neither get pregnant nor do they expect proposals of marriage.

It's not a matter of convenience though, that makes his heart beat faster and his breathing shallow – it's the thought of what Henry will do to him, how he will take him, claim him. It's been too long that he wasn't in charge, not a prince among commoners. In Henry's presence, _he_ is the subject.

To his surprise Henry does not make him kneel but ushers him to a settee, infinitely more comfortable than any sofa in his father's house, and busies himself with opening the buttons of Johnny's waistcoat. “You must go see my tailor at your earliest convenience, this _thing_ has had its day.” He shoves it over Johnny's shoulders and occupies himself with the shirt instead, doesn't stop until he has bared skin, smooth, sun-kissed skin stretching taut over firm muscle. His admiration is unmistakable in the way his fingertips trail over the jagged landscape of Johnny's torso. “It appears there are _some_ regards in which the labour has improved your physique,” Henry mutters, following the lines of rippling stomach muscle.

Then he leans back. “I would have a drink before we discuss business.”

Johnny exhales, slowly. Relieved somehow. It seems almost normal to sit on Henry's sofa, bare-chested, while a footman serves brandy, and listen to Henry's conversational chatter.

“So, how is your lover called, Dagger? No wonder you fell for him. You must tell me all about him. Only how long do you think you can keep this secret? Especially now that you are master of your own little shanty town.”

“You're astonishingly well informed,” Johnny notes, “You said it's one of the whores who reports to you?”

“All of them,” Henry claims, and raises his glass. “There's no one with a better sense for business than a whore, don't you agree? Speaking of business – what will be your fee this time?”

Johnny feels the colour rise on his cheeks.

“Charles already suggested an investment,” he says, trying not to stumble over the words.

“Yes, yes,” Henry stops him with an impatient wave of his hand, “I understand Charles needs a loan for his viaduct. I want to know what it is that _you_ want.”

“I–“ Johnny starts, “I feel it's a joint enterprise now. I want to help see it through.”

“Really?” Henry raises an eyebrow again, scepticism written all over his features. “You feel building a viaduct is your next grand adventure?” He puts his hand on Johnny's thigh, a heavy touch, that is hard to bear.

“Yes, I think so,” Johnny says and fights the impulse to stand and to run. Fights the impulse to lean closer and to press his lips to the hard line of Henry's mouth. Instead he takes a sip of his brandy. The generously poured glass is almost empty.

“It's too modest a price for your company, don't you think?”

Johnny nearly chokes on the drink. “Surely you must know the amount of money we need, Henry.”

“Indeed I do.”

“So,” Johnny continues, racking his brain feverishly for a possible reason for Henry's impassivity... He pales. “What is it that you want to do to me then?”

Henry's teeth are too sharp, his smile– Johnny has to avert his eyes.

“Oh, John, you don't want me to spoil the surprise, don't you?”

“I want to know the conditions, Henry.” His voice is hoarse. “What do you want from me?”

“Well, your first-born of course,” Henry jokes, only his eyes are dead serious. His hand strokes Johnny's thigh, soothing circles, warm even through the thick wool of the trousers.

“Nothing you don't long for yourself,” he whispers, so low, Johnny can't barely make out the words over the thrum of blood in his ears. And then his palm cups his half-hard cock through the fabric, and Johnny gasps into Henry's mouth, that sharp-toothed maw with its smooth tongue, which glides so deliciously along his own; Johnny hears himself moan, such a wanton, such a desperate sound, and when Henry draws back at last, Johnny realises his fingers are curled into Henry's shirt, holding onto him.

“So do we have a deal?” Henry asks.

__

Henry seals their pact right then and there in the parlour, fucks Johnny over the sofa in deep, thorough thrusts, fast and unceremonious, to take the edge off their need. Johnny would love to say he hated it, but he comes just as swiftly as Henry, with barely a touch to his cock, and Henry holds him through the aftershocks, blanketing him with his body and hums his satisfaction against Johnny's neck, a deep, comforting sound unfurling like drugs in Johnny's blood, a thick, pleasant warmth slithering in his veins.

Afterwards Henry has the servants prepare a bath, hot and rich with scented oil, and bids Johnny to join him, fits his back flush against his wide chest, and Johnny feels almost delicate as Henry takes his hands to try and brush the dirt from under his fingernails. “You're in desperate need of a manicure,” he whispers into Johnny's ear after he's given up, tucking a wet curl of hair behind it, and Johnny makes a noise suspiciously close to a chuckle. The water melts the tension from his muscles and eases the soreness in his arse; he is in fact so relaxed he is about to fall asleep, when Henry's right hand glides over his clavicle, down his chest and stomach, and wraps itself around Johnny's cock, which twitches and swells with renewed interest.

Again, Henry does not make much of a show of it, strokes him quickly and efficiently to completion, while he holds him to his own chest in an iron grip, so Johnny doesn't accidentally flood the bathroom by twisting and turning and thrashing around. “That's it,” he croons, when Johnny comes, panting, and it's almost lovingly how he curls his arms around him and pulls him close.

“Why do you do this?” Johnny murmurs, drifting off to sleep, but instead of an answer Henry presses his lips to his temple and says: “Let's talk about it tomorrow. First you need to get some rest.”

__

When Johnny wakes the next morning, his wrists are tied to the bed posts.

“Henry?” he asks, pleads, there it is already, the ugly squeal of desperation in his voice, but Henry only laughs. A nasty, cruel sound.

“Now we can talk about what it is that I want,” he says.

__


End file.
